


Outside With The Wolves

by Nununununu



Category: Original Work
Genre: Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Hope, Kissing, Love, M/M, Mystery, Past Character Death, Resurrection, Reunions, Trust Issues, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27471655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nununununu/pseuds/Nununununu
Summary: Davian had died three months ago and yet here he is knocking at Timothy’s door.
Relationships: Grieving Widower With Trust Issues/His Devoted Husband Who Came Back Wrong, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19
Collections: Mistletoe Exchange 2020





	Outside With The Wolves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shamebucket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shamebucket/gifts).



> Just in case, mild tw for non-graphic fear of husband being buried alive
> 
> (Originally posted 21/12; updated for author reveals)

Davian had died three months ago and yet here he is knocking at Timothy’s door.

At _their_ door – or so it used to be. So it might be again now. But _how_? Timothy stands on the other side of said door clutching at Davian’s old rifle, his hands shaking so much he’ll be more of a danger to himself than Davian if he tries to fire.

The thought of firing at his husband makes him nauseous. The fact he sat by Davian’s side those three months ago, hands shaking just as much as he wrapped them around Davian’s, holding on tightly as his husband died; the fact he washed his husband’s body and prepared him for burial and dug the grave himself – this knowledge all serves to make him more nauseous still.

Did Davian dig his way out of that grave? Had he been _alive_ down there somehow? Davian had been dead, he’d been _dead_ , no doubt or uncertainty about it, and on losing his husband it had felt like something inside Timothy had died as well.

And even if he had somehow, somehow been wrong – he hadn’t been wrong – and Davian _had_ been alive, it’s been _three months_.

Outside, his fist still thumping on the door, Davian opens his mouth to let out a low moan.

It mingles with the wind seeking entry into the house as night sets in; it echoes off the woods and mountains not too far from their solitary house like the occasional mournful cries of passing wolves.

The wolves don’t bother them – or they haven’t yet – although Timothy had been concerned they might, when Davian had first suggested building their house out here, so far from anything else.

“So far from other people, you mean,” Grinning lopsidedly, Davian had tugged Timothy in to press an affectionate kiss to his lover’s temple through his salt-and-pepper hair, “Plenty of everything else still around. But if you’d prefer to have other folks closer at hand, let’s build our place somewhere else.”

“No; no love, you know, I don’t think I do,” They had the SUV and sled for when winter came and the snow set in, and Davian had been so enthusiastic about the lake nearby and the possibility of also building a boat. Timothy had looked at the mountains with new eyes and seen inspiration for his paintings, and had taken a walk with Davian hand-in-hand down to the water, thinking to himself that, if he could just spend the rest of his days here alone together with his husband, then he would be utterly content.

They had built their house together and then Davian had worked on the boat while Timothy made trips into the nearest town – a good hour and a half off – to investigate the general store and get to know a few local artists, and then they had done both of these things together as well.

It had been like a little paradise to themselves while it had lasted.

Timothy had walked hand-in-hand with his husband early each morning and breathed in the quiet and the solitude, drinking in the changing of the seasons, and he hadn’t missed the company of others – which was only that drive away when either of them did want it – at all. He painted more than he had in years, laughed more likewise, and sought for suitable solutions together with Davian when occasional problems did crop up, things like animals raiding the trash despite their best efforts to prevent it – little things that were in hindsight so predictable, Davian driving into town to chat with folks there all too willing to lend a more experienced ear, surprising Timothy from behind with fond hands on his hips and a grinning kiss to his ear when Timothy went to collect a bulk order of art supplies he’d ordered in to the general store.

“What was that for?” Laughing a little, his hands full of boxes, Timothy had leaned back against him.

“I just love you, that’s all,” Reaching around him to collect some of the boxes and help, Davian had kissed him over again, and if they hadn’t been so encumbered – and standing right near the broadly grinning store owner – Timothy would have reeled him in.

“I love you too,” Timothy had made sure to tell his husband when they’d loaded up the boxes and felt like he fell in love all over again at the sight of the sheer joy in his husband’s gaze.

“Only you, Tim,” Smiling, Davian had shaken his head, “Only you.”

_Only you._

Taking a breath in as that knocking continues, Timothy lowers the rifle.

“Just a moment,” His voice is hoarse, cracking as he calls to Davian through the door, “Just a – Just a moment, love.”

Love. Yes. Whatever has happened, Davian is and always will be this still.

Ignoring the way his eyes sting, Timothy stores the rifle away quickly but safely, gives the kitchen counter a swipe with a nearby cloth – it shouldn’t matter really, but he’s been forgetting to do things like put his paints away or even do any painting at all over the last three months – and snatches the throw from its heap off the couch, tossing it over one arm of the furniture instead to make it look a little less obvious like he hasn’t been able to bear sleeping in their cold, empty bed his husband was lying in when he died.

What if this _isn’t_ Davian? What if it just _looks_ like him through the windows? What if it’s in fact something else, something that is inhabiting Davian’s body or that’s stolen his face and his shape?

Outside, the knocking stops, the loss of it jarring. In the distance, a wolf howls.

“ _Davian_ ,” No. No no no. He can’t –

Davian can’t have _gone_. Frantic, cursing himself for his hesitation, Timothy near staggers over to the window, wrenching in a shuddering gasp of relief at the sight of his husband still standing out there.

Looking in at him.

A sharp judder of – of something goes through Timothy as the eye contact. Davian’s hair was – is – always that bit too long, feathering over his eyes under his hat.

Timothy had buried his husband with that hat resting on his chest; Davian is wearing it now. Timothy can’t see his eyes, lost as they are beneath that hair and the hat’s brim, but his husband is looking at him, he’s completely sure.

_Something_ is looking at him, anyway.

“I – I’m coming. I’ll let you in,” He should have just let Davian in right away. Davian would think – would have thought – _would think_ nothing of the paint pots, the blanket on the couch. He’d only ever wanted Timothy’s happiness, just as Timothy had wanted his.

And his husband by his side, back together hand-in-hand. If he opens that door, perhaps they could have that again.

“I’m sorry,” Timothy is saying as he undoes the locks with still shaking hands, as he pulls back the latch, “I’m so sorry, love.”

If he can’t see Davian’s face clearly as he drags the door open – heavy, why does it feel so much heavier than usual – that’s because of the blurring of Timothy’s eyes.

Once he’s stepped inside, Davian simply stands. Whatever compelled him to pound on the door seems to have drained away now, and he doesn’t look at Timothy again immediately.

Timothy finds his hands creeping out and then falling back, desperate to touch him, desperate for Davian to _say_ something.

“Love?” Wiping his face as he is, it takes him longer than it should do to realise that Davian is wearing different clothes. Not those Timothy had so carefully dressed him in before the burial, smoothing the material over the still cold form of his husband’s body to get any imperfections out.

The hat Davian is wearing is definitely his though, and that is his calm, steady expression when he finally turns to study Timothy’s own face with eyes that don’t –

If his husband’s gaze seems to see through him, or even right _into_ him in a way that is inexplicably different from how Davian always used to look at and understand him before, Timothy doesn’t need to feel the urge to swallow or straighten his shoulders as if in preparation to take a step back.

He doesn’t need to feel this, just as he doesn’t need to think of the rifle where he’s placed it away or the fact the door is still open to let in the wind and the night, and there’s another call from a wolf, closer now.

His husband’s hands are slowly lifting towards him, slowly reaching out.

“ _Tim_ ,” Davian says, and if it barely sounds like Timothy’s name at first, it does when his husband repeats it another time. Those hands cupping Timothy’s jaw with such gentleness and hesitation his heart cracks.

He throws his arms around Davian without any further hesitation or doubt.

“Love, oh love, you’re back – how are you back – you _died_ ,” His own voice is barely comprehensible, words squeezing past all the grief and joy competing to fill his throat, “I buried you.”

Davian is smiling, pushing back his hat to brush aside that hair over his eyes, when Timothy can finally bringing himself to draw back just enough so they can look at each other.

There is only warmth in Davian’s gaze as he meets Timothy’s eyes now.

“You brought me back,” That same warmth is in his voice and in his hands as he strokes his thumbs over Timothy’s cheeks, “Not idea how you did it, Tim, or what I did until I got here, really – but I knew for sure I had to get back to you. It’s only ever been you, Tim. _Only you_.”

“Only you for me too,” Dragging his husband back in against him, Timothy kisses him hard, groaning at the sheer relief of it when Davian immediately kisses him back.

It’s no small amount of time later when they manage to part from each other again long enough to shut the door. The wind has gentled outside and the wolf moved on. Timothy turns the lights up in the kitchen as Davian closes the shutters over the window.

The part of Timothy that was lost on his husband’s death feels as if it’s back again. Stepping in close behind him, Davian rests his chin on Timothy’s shoulder as he closes his hands fondly over his husband’s hips, and all is right with the world.


End file.
